by Kevin Hearne
The Lung nodded once, the wattles under his chin rippling at the sudden movement. “An old law, sir. Raelech bards aren’t to be trusted.”
The pelenaut frowned. “How old is this law? Rael is our ally, and this bard is escorted by a courier of the Triune Council, is he not?”
“It’s a very old law, sir.”
“Then let’s move on and flush it down the shit sluice. Bring in some extra mariners if you think it prudent but allow the courier and bard to approach.”
Föstyr rattled off some orders and there was a general scramble to obey, and the pelenaut looked back at me and smirked briefly, sharing a moment of amusement that the same muscle-bound bullies who used to slap him around as a child now thought of nothing but his safety.
Pelenaut Röllend and I had been childhood friends and used to get beat up by the same bands of fish heads in our youth, before he got his kenning and became politically powerful. After he closed the university out of necessity—my office and classroom were lodging for refugees now—he brought me to court to be a historian of sorts during a historically significant time, since his usual court scribe had been drafted to help administer the families staying in Survivor Field and record the many deaths they reported. My fingers were ink-stained and cramped from sitting at a desk behind and to the right of the coral throne and scribbling down everything I could, but I was grateful for the work and the cot to crash on when I couldn’t bear to face Elynea and proud of the leader my old friend Rölly had become.
He didn’t sit on his throne very much; he tended to pace in front of it, fully engaged in the governing of the country, especially now that we were fighting for our very survival as a people. “Water which does not move stagnates,” he explained. And when he wasn’t forced to govern from (or in front of) his seat of power, he toured the city in disguise, taking only a discreet bodyguard along to “solve problems upstream” before they could flow down to him in the Wellspring.
Once she was admitted, the courier proved to be an unusually tall and striking woman, her hair pulled tightly from her face and gathered in the back with a golden torc and a pair of goggles dangling around her neck. Her rust-red leather armor—and the bard’s as well—was spattered with the guts of insects, the visible drawback to a courier’s kenning. The ability to run so fast that insects became a hazard simultaneously thrilled and disgusted me.
The bard stood a step behind the courier when she halted in front of the throne. She nodded to the pelenaut and said, “Pelenaut Röllend, I am Numa, Courier of the Huntress Raena,” in that strange formal protocol the Raelechs used: always their given name, profession, and patron goddess. She told him about the approaching armies that were supposed to join with us and mount a counterattack against the Bone Giants, which would have been very interesting to me if the bard hadn’t been there with her. I confess I missed some of the details because I was far too curious about her companion—which probably proves that I am not the best court recorder.
Bards and couriers were elite castes in the Raelech system, which allowed only seven and twenty of each to exist at any time. Couriers we saw often, but I doubted anyone in the Wellspring had ever seen a Raelech bard before. He had a pack on his back with a couple of stringed instruments sticking up out of the top, a rather full pouch of something at his belt that was far too big to be a purse, and a pleasant, confident expression that I envied. I would not be so comfortable meeting the ruler of another country.
“Very well,” Rölly said when the courier’s official message ended. “What other news do you have for me?”
“Only an introduction, sir, and a request for lodging this evening. I will return in the morning to take any reply you wish back to the Triune Council.” Numa took two steps back so that the bard was closest to the throne, and she gestured to him. “My colleague in service to the Triune and my lifebond, Fintan.” Her smile as she introduced him was proud.
The pelenaut was not the only one who had to squelch a look of surprise at that personal addition. Fintan was not conventionally handsome, and the top of his head reached only to Numa’s chin. They did not appear to be well matched, but that only increased my curiosity.
Rölly stopped pacing, netted his fingers together, and nodded once at the bard. “Tell me why you are here, Fintan.”
“I …” He flicked his eyes back at his wife, who nodded in encouragement. “I am a gift of sorts from the Triune Council.”
“A gift?”
“It would be more accurate to say I am on loan. I am to go with the Raelech army once it arrives, but in the meantime, I am to provide my services to the people of Pelemyn free of charge.”
“Your services?”
“Entertainment, sir.”
“What? Singing and dancing?”
The bard shuddered at the thought of dancing and said, “The occasional song, perhaps. But mostly it will be the tale of how we got here so that we will know where we are going.”
Pelenaut Röllend’s eyes widened. “You presume to know where this is all headed?”
“No, sir. The future always waits until the present to reveal its plans. But the past can clarify our goals for us sometimes, help us say goodbye to those we haven’t let go, even realize that we need to change. That is the magic of stories. And my kenning allows me to tell stories better than anyone else, if you’ll allow me a moment of immodesty.”
“I don’t understand. The Third Kenning is of the earth, but the Raelech blessed are known for erecting stone walls and destroying them more than anything else. How does that allow you to tell stories well?”
“Bards do have an unusual adaptation to the kenning, sir,” Fintan replied, and flicked his eyes to his wife. “We share one with couriers, in fact: a perfect memory, the memory of earth. Crucial to storytelling and to relaying messages alike. But where couriers are gifted with extraordinary speed, bards are gifted with extraordinary voices. Our voices can be heard for a league if we wish it, and we can also take on the voices and likenesses of those we have met. It allows us to tell the story of the earth and the people on it.”
“You can change your appearance? I have heard rumors of this talent but have never seen it. My Lung informs me that we have a law against it.”
“I’m well aware, sir. Most of the nations do out of an excess of caution. It’s why we bards are rarely seen outside the borders of Rael. May I have your permission to demonstrate this aspect of my kenning?”
The pelenaut nodded, and Fintan fished in a pouch to produce one of his black spheres, about the size of a small egg—at that time we didn’t know what it was. When he pulled it out, Föstyr barked and four mariners sprang forward, spears pointed at the bard’s throat. Fintan froze and Numa protested as more mariners surrounded the pelenaut and moved him back from the perceived threat, but Röllend demanded that they leave the bard untouched and then, somewhat exasperated behind a wall of flesh and armor, asked Fintan what he might have there.
“My deepest apologies for not explaining first. It is a natural rock we extract from the Poet’s Range, easily broken and hollow inside, that will release a gas that allows me to cast a seeming.”
“How does a gas allow you to cast a seeming?”
“I am imprinting it now, as I hold it, with the form and voice I wish to take.”
“Whose?”
“Yours, Pelenaut Röllend. I thought it might be amusing.”
“You thought it would be amusing to impersonate the pelenaut?” Föstyr roared. His anger caused some of the mariners’ spear points to twitch, and Fintan’s eyes shot back and forth between them.
“I am reevaluating the humor now, and I admit it does not hold up well to inspection. My comedic instincts are below average at best.”
Rölly shot me a glance that indicated that he thought the bard’s humor was perfectly serviceable. “Remain still,” he said, “and explain precisely what you were about to do with that rock.”
“I was going to throw it onto the toe of my boot, where it woul
d break, and once the gas rose and adhered to my form, I would seem to be you. If I may be allowed to continue under the close supervision of your mariners, you will see how easily the illusion is pierced—ah, no. Not pierced. Poor choice of words.” The bard tried to make eye contact with the mariners without moving. “Please do not pierce anything, gentlemen.”
“Very well. Mariners, please take a step back and let the bard enact exactly what he spoke.” As they did so, Pelenaut Röllend added, “Make sure that rock goes to your feet and nowhere else, sir, or my mariners may misinterpret your intentions.”
“Understood.”
Once given room, Fintan tossed the pellet down, the gas rose up around him, and he copied Pelenaut Röllend’s form perfectly, growing a foot in stature and changing his clothes from the Raelech rust and brown leathers to the Brynt blue and white tailoring. He smiled broadly and spoke in the pelenaut’s own voice, “You are looking very fine today, sir, if I may say so.”
After the gasps of awe at this demonstration I followed the gaze of Föstyr, who was turning his head back and forth to judge the accuracy of the copy. If he found a flaw, he didn’t say so.
“Well done,” the Lung said. “And how do we banish this seeming?”
“Any physical contact or a strong wind can blow it away. Or rain, for that matter. It is easily dispersed. Please ask one of your mariners to clap me on the shoulder or shake my hand or any other nonlethal contact and watch what happens.”
Föstyr chucked his chin at one of the mariners, and the man reached out with his left hand and laid it on the bard’s shoulder. The fabric of the tunic parted like vapor, his hand sank out of sight as if into a cloud, and when he removed his hand, there was a hole in the pelenaut’s seeming through which we could see Fintan’s leathers somewhat below. The seeming of the pelenaut said, “Thank you, that will do admirably,” and his voice changed from Röllend’s baritone to Fintan’s tenor by the end of the sentence. “You see, I never physically change my shape—it is all an optical illusion—and the seeming cannot survive physical contact.” The seeming began to warp and slide in disturbing fashion as the gas lost the surface tension keeping it together. Fintan slowly raised his own left hand and wiped at his face so that we could see him again, and after that larger breach was made, the seeming came apart much more quickly over the rest of his body. “When I perform, I have a different gas that disperses this more quickly. These gifts of the poet goddess are intended to help me tell stories, not practice espionage, and it is easily countered.”
“But you understand why it leads to mistrust,” the pelenaut said.
“I do, sir. That’s why we wished to be forthright with you,” the bard said, and the pelenaut asked the mariners to back off.
“This story you wish to tell,” Föstyr said. “Can you give us the short version?”
“Certainly.” Once Fintan outlined the broad swaths of his tale, it was quickly decided to accept the bard’s services and allow him to meet Tallynd du Böll. The pelenaut grew enthusiastic about what it would do for the city’s morale—the prospect had already visibly improved his own—and then he startled me by whipping his head around in my direction.
“Master Dervan. Come forward, please.” I laid down my pen and rose, clasping my hands behind my back to hide my stained fingers, then limped as quickly as my old knee injury would allow. The pelenaut signaled with an arm that I should stand beside him, and once I did, he presented me to the bard. “Numa and Fintan, this is Master Dervan du Alöbar, lately of the university but currently my court historian. I would consider it a personal favor, Fintan, if you would allow him to record your tale for posterity.”
If the bard was as surprised as I was by the request, he hid it well. He was so smooth that I wondered what it would take to rattle him; even the spear points had only made him careful. “A pleasure to meet you, Master Dervan,” he said. Numa said nothing but nodded at me when our eyes met. “And of course you are welcome to write it down. Should I be worried about the speed of your handwriting?”
The pelenaut smiled and answered for me. “He will do his best, and of course you shall approve the manuscript.”
That elicited an answering grin from the bard. “An opportunity to improve on my performance! A dangerous incentive to offer a poet.” His eyes slid over to me, amused and clearly teasing me. “We could be editing for years, Master Dervan.”
“So be it,” I said, infected by the bard’s good nature.
“Excellent,” Pelenaut Röllend said, and then he deftly handed the Raelechs off to Föstyr to see to the details of their lodging for the evening while he recessed the court for a few minutes and drew me with him behind the throne to the Wellspring’s water wall. Normally this fell in an unbroken curtain of water that made only a pleasant background noise, but there were rocks set in the wall and Rölly used his kenning to split the stream again and again around those rocks to make the water drop as noisily as possible into the drainage basin and thus obscure our conversation from any nearby ears.
Rölly threw an arm around my shoulders and said in a low voice, “Welcome to the world of intrigue, Master Dervan. That man is a spy for the Triune Council. A very politely introduced spy but a spy nonetheless. And you get to watch him.”
“What?”
“You’re perfectly suited for the job.”
“How can you say that, Rölly? I’m an historian. I study things in the past so I don’t have to deal with people in the present.”
“Remember to keep your voice down,” he cautioned. A recessed court did not equal an empty one. “And you weren’t always an historian. You were an excellent mariner before your injury forced a career change. And Sarena must have taught you a thing or two.”
My jaw dropped. Sarena had been a spy for Rölly and for his predecessor as well. Publicly I had presented her death as the result of a tragic fatal disease, but the two of us and the hygienist knew that she actually had been poisoned at some point with a slow-acting agent. Her liver failed over a period of weeks, and we had no idea who had done it or when precisely she had been poisoned. A representative from almost any country could have been responsible; someone had wanted her removed permanently from the diplomatic corps and had been exceedingly clever about it. She had shared some of her professional life with me as she weakened, knowing the end was near, but it was nothing like training.
Turning down my volume but turning up the desperation in my expression, I said, “A thing or two doesn’t make me perfectly suited. I don’t know what to do. I can’t fight well or keep secrets or anything.” I could hold a spear or sword but could not be expected to hold my ground. I could still walk without a cane most days, but my right knee would buckle at any pressure more strenuous than moving slowly forward.
“You don’t know any secrets, so it’s not a problem,” he said, and that was true. Sarena had never shared anything sensitive with me. “And you don’t need to fight.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Have lunch with the guy every day and write down his story. Add in what you want about what’s happening here. Ask him questions about Rael or whatever you like. He’ll ask you about yourself and the city.”
“And I’m supposed to answer?”
“Of course. Tell him the truth. Even about Sarena if he asks. I’m sure he already knows, and there’s no way we can hide our situation here when he can see it for himself.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You can’t sleep in the palace anymore. You have to go home, Dervan.”
My stomach churned at the thought of it. “Why? I prefer it here, and I don’t mind the cot.”
“I understand your home is fraught with memories of your wife. But you have dammed up your emotions long enough, and you need to let them flow again. You can heal from this, and you will. That is what I say to every Brynt alive right now.” He squeezed my shoulder and found my eyes. “Look, my friend, this is history happening right now. It needs to be written down, and I tr
ust you to do it. You told me once about the people who always write the histories. Who are they again?”
“The victors,” I said, and he smiled at me.
It was a bit dizzying to have another sudden change in my career—from mariner to scholar to court scribe to pseudo-spy with the country’s fate possibly stranded in a tidal pool. But I remembered to count my many blessings: the majority of Brynts had lost far more in the invasion than their comfortable careers.
Elynea had lost practically everyone she knew except for her children. Her husband and her neighbors had all been hacked to component parts by the Bone Giants just outside the walls of Festwyf. Her husband had gone outside that night to investigate alarming noises and shouted at her to pick up the kids and run, don’t look back. Spurred by the fear in his voice and the cries of others, she had done just that, barefoot and carrying nothing but her children.
They woke up screaming for their father most nights.
The kids seemed happy, though, when I arrived at my wee cottage with some fresh fish and a bag of rice practically plucked off a Fornish grain barge that had just docked. Through the window I saw (and heard) that Tamöd was pretending to be a tidal mariner diving for pearls and Pyrella was impersonating an unusually argumentative oyster. Elynea watched them from a chair at the kitchen table, eyes puffy and red but not actively weeping or even frowning. She wasn’t smiling either, but perhaps the antics of her children would make that happen soon. I paused, feeling somewhat guilty at interrupting their peaceful moment by walking into my own house. But the fish wouldn’t be getting any fresher that way.
I knocked on my door as a warning and called out a friendly hello. They startled and then relaxed, the kids shouting “Dervaaaan!” by way of welcome. Elynea rose, self-conscious, and looked about the kitchen and living area, perhaps to make sure nothing had been damaged by her inattention.
“Oh,” she said, “we didn’t expect you.”
“I didn’t expect to be here either. Things have changed a bit at the palace.”